
Class XS_3SS2 

Book_ 



CoftyiightN". 






COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THREADS o/ MOSS 

By 

WALTER L. SCOTT 



Editor of 

Recollections of Thomas Jefferson Barton, M.D. 

and 

Author of "Perseus " in Rhyme 



1908 



UBHArV of O0N«irtES3 
\ wo Oooies Keceive* 

iUN 27 1908 



I 2 c 7 c^ J 



^^ -h'o 



\ 



C'fs 



b37 



1*^ 



Copyrighted, 1908^ "by Walter L. Scott. 



YAchUM^^ M.ij. 



To those young friends 

whose instruction has been my pleasure 

this little volume is inscribed 

by the author 



NOTE 

This little volume could have of itself, perhaps, 
no great vitality. 

As its name implies, "Threads of Moss" lives 
chiefly by clinging to the giant oaks of literature. 

WALTER L. SCOTT, 

Tivoh, N. Y. 

1908 



INTRODUCTION 

The poet, 'ere his muse begins, 
Like harper tries each sounding string, 
Till each in sweeter concord rings, 
'Ere to the dainty throng he sings. 

Or marksman tests his pliant bow. 
His shaft cut from the copses low, 
Essays the string and proves them so 
To meet his rival archer foe. 

Or warrior knight, the fleetest steed 
That ever scarred the yielding mead, 
And so, perchance, for greater deed. 
Are horse and rider well agreed. 

Or boatman proves his bark and oar. 
Skims the white crests that lave the shore, 
Ghdes the deep furrow, and all before 
He rides the mightier waters o'er. 

Not so the author ; all combine. 
The unsophisticated line, 
Discords perhaps without design — 
Blame not the bard but mend the rhyme. 



THREADS OF MOSS 



THE NEW YEAR 

Heigh ho, for the jolly, bold, bonny New Year! 
He is riding full speed but will he get here? 
Oh, will he get here in time to reign in his stead, 
Ere his dying ancestor lies speechless and 
dead ? 

The Old Year is dying. The merry Old Year ! 
We'll let a tear, tender, fall soft on his bier. 
While we watch for the rider o'er mountain and 

mead. 
As he gallops this way on his snowy white steed. 

The Old Year is dying ; alas, he is dead ! 

(Ten thousand worse fellows than he have been 

sped.) 
Now a ring in the steeple, a shout at the gate, 
Tell the New Year is here and he rode not too 

late. 



8 THREADS OF MOSS. 

Then ho, for the jolly, bold, bonny young heir! 
He gets the whole kingdom but do not despair, 
We will share all he gets or we'll share at least 

part, 
For there's peace on his forehead and love at 

his heart. 



OUR HEROES 

WRITTEN FOR DECORATION DAY 

Oh, remember our heroes, those brave warriors 

of ours, 
And wreathe for them roses and garlands of 

flowers ; 
Let affection press gently each mound of the 

brave 
As they slumber in peace the long years in 

their grave; 
For these soldiers shall sleep 'till the bugle's 

last cry 
Bids them wake and march forth to their tents 

in the sky ; 
Then blest be our heroes when the brief night is 

through, 
And Jehovah shall call them for final review. 

We'll remember those heroes, those warriors 

who sleep 
In their tombs in the sea in the vales of the 

deep; 



10 THREADS OF MOSS. 

They fell on those decks that they bathed with 

their blood, 
Then sank to their rest in the vaults of the 

flood; 
There no myrtle may twine nor the ivy vines 

thread, 
But the love in our hearts reaches down to the 

dead. 
Dream on gallant warriors (this song is for 

thee) 
'Till thy Captain shall summon thee forth from 

the sea! 

Oh, remember those warriors who lie where they 

fell, 
When the shock of the conflict rent mountain. 

and dell, 
And the chief and his charger, the soldier and gun, 
Went down in the fray, but the battle was won ! 
And an angel of glory bent low o'er the sward, 
And enrolled them that day 'mong the hosts of 

the Lord. 
Then remember our heroes, those warriors of 

ours. 
And wreathe for them roses and garlands of 

flowers. 



O VALENTINE 

O Valentine, the day is thine, the fourteenth 

day of Feb., 
When missives hie and tokens fly and winter's 

on the ebb, 
When robins swing upon the wing with 

thoughts of northern heather, 
And hearts o'erflow despite the snow and much 

inclement weather, 
Then lovely girls with golden curls and maids 

with darker glory 
Write things so sweet 'twere indiscreet to here 

relate the story. 

O Valentine, the day is thine, this fourteenth 

day foresaid. 
When Cupid gay has things to say would turn 

the fairest head. 
And when the Muse, think as we choose, fills up 

each thought with honey. 
And webs are spun and hearts are won without 

the aid of money. 
Then gallant men assume the pen to improvise 

a sonnet. 
And thus address the loveliness enveloped in a 

bonnet. 



THE RIVER HUDSON 

Flow on, O River, to the sea, 

Thy grandeur is the token 
That more and more thy waves shall pour 

Through centuries yet unspoken. 

Flow on among thy lovely vales 

And thy majestic mountains; 
From all thy hills thy silver rills 

Shall he thy endless fountains. 

Flow on, and though a thousand ships 

Are on thy bosom freighted, 
Yet not by thee shall bark ere be 

To shipwreck ever fated. 

Flow on, O River, to the sea, 
Thou hast no peer in splendor; 

Here by thy side my home shall bide, 
And here my song I render. 



THE DAINTY MAIDEN 

(Lines suggested by the inundated condition of the 
street upon which the author then lived, March, 1897.) 

It chanced upon a certain night, 
While wading up Wall Street, 

I saw a dainty, dainty maid 
All loath to wet her feet. 

Close by the watery brink she stood, 

Demurely looking down, 
"If I wade in this slushy gulf 

I'll surely, surely drown." 

Soaked to a lamping post I clung, 

My heart a-welling o'er — 
"Oh, would I were a ferry boat, 

Or else a bachelor." 

And then that dainty, dainty maid 

Essayed her tiny shoe; 
The water got the best of it — 

"Would I were water too." 



14 THREADS OF MOSS. 

*Twas such a dainty, dainty maid ; — ■ 
To make her once more try, 

The pondling downed his muddy look, 
He had her in his eye. 

"O, what a dainty, dainty maid!" 

The water chuckled out; 
"Here comes a youthful denizen, 

We'll see what he's about." 



Close to the lamping post I clung, 
— That post and I were one — 

"If this were but the Delaware 
I'd cross like Washington." 

But now the youthful denizen 
Has reached the miry scene; 

"Just put your confidence in me 
And on my elbow lean." 

And so the two they waded in, 
The dampness deeper grew; 
"If I walk up to my chin," she cried, 
"I'll not be blaming you." 



THREADS OF MOSS. 15 

Oh, such a dainty, dainty maid ^ 

To walk the wetness through! 

Her confidence had shrunken some 
As had her tiny shoe. 

And as they sank the deeper in, 

She would no more be led, 
He to the great occasion rose. 

And placed her on his head. 

'Twas then I quit the lamping post. 
And struck out for the shore, 

With great regret that 'twas not I 
That maid to safety bore. 



TO "T. O. M." 

(in self defense.) 

To thee, my unknown bard, I'll own the freak, 
My delirium, that prompted thy critique; 
The light effusions of my heedless soul 
Usurped my wonted self and took control; 
Loosed Fun and Mirth, which we too often 

bind, — 
And freed the gayer dictates of my mind. 
The Attic salt, to which I'd ne'er been bred, 
Mingling with my blood, leaped into my head; 
And Nymphs and Naiads, we so lightly deem, 
Winged the corpuscles of that flying stream — 
For this, my hapless verse, I'm made to feel, 
Though slightly wounded, thy Damascus 

steel, — 
Yet when I view the scars so deftly made, 
I know no god of war e'er forged thy blade. 

Again, my critic bard, and captious friend, 
Whose T. O. M. I've labored much to ken, 
Who broke my hyperboles upon thy *wheel, 
And made much doubt my simple simihes yield, 



THREADS OF MOSS. 17 

To you for pardon, prithee, must I sue, 
If 'long this theme a few quaint quibs I strew? 
For when upon that image you declaim, 
—The "maid" upon the "head" of "den'zen" 

lain — 
You quite overlooked the depth the water grew; 
For had he held the maid the way that your 

suggestion charms. 
The pubhc paragraph had read, "she drowned 

within his arms !" 

And now, bright bard, or ere I close this strain, 
Permit me yet one figure to disclaim; — 
The Elf !— Ha, ha ! that statement I'll condone ; 
But "portly self's" to much for me to own ! 
"Soaked!" Well, water out of place 'tis best 

to loath: — 
In this the "god of wine" will Bacchus both. 



*Wheel of torture. 



SAUGERTIES LITERARY CLUB 

(Pertaining to the Saugerties, N. Y., Literary Club, 
1881-1886, of which the author was a member.) 

Part 1. 

Of every Club there has been sung 
Its praises by some dulcet tongue; 
With rarest words new coined or old, 
The tales of Clubland have been told. 



Then let me from seclusion raise, 
And hold my Club to loving gaze, 
And pray the Muse to help indite 
The truthful story that I write. 

Yet ere my lab'ring pen would tell, 
And keep the rhyme and meter well, 
About these themes these authors wrote, 
Make not a slip and not a misquote, 
Indulge me yet a rhyme or two. 
Before these subjects I pursue. 
And let me, pray, in truth disclose 
Just how, I vow, it all arose 
I failed Part Second to compose. 



THREADS OF MOSS. 19 

The best time, so the Muses say, 

To improvise a truthful lay, 

Is from twelve to six a. m., 

And hence to practice on this plan, 

I waited till the village tower 

Proclaimed that night the midnight hour, 

I waited till each lusty bird 

Was satisfied he had been heard. 

Or some belated youngster ran, 

Or hurried some bewildered man, 

The first to home and slumbers sound, 

The second also homeward bound. 

But not, alas, to slumbers sweet 

I'm told, but I will not repeat; 

Suffice it that all quiet grew. 

So I serenely might pursue 

My stock of rhymes that I must write. 

Ere speeds the balance of the night. 



This I determined then and wrote: 
'Twas when keen Winter's piercing note, 
Out the cold storage of his throat. 
Goose-quilled the epidermis coat, 
When Jove — 'Twas here a score or more 
Of raps assailed my outside door, 



20 THREADS OF MOSS. 

And broke at once the poet's thread 

Of fancy, and compelled instead, 

The op'ning of his window wide, 

To view the pressing throng outside; 

Here had converged (and now's the rub), 

Each lord and lady of the Club. 

They had convened in '86, 

Beside the Hudson, not the Styx. 

And what a sight the poet meets, — 

Four score of forms where once was street ! 

One hundred thousand sheets, or less. 

Of snugly written MSS., 

Were waved with gloved or mittened hand, 

(The air was very rare, for lo. 

Pale mercury, below zero. 

Congealed like milk and ceased to flow !) 

To make the poet understand 

That each was an inspired sheet 

And must, ere does the night turn grey, 

Be all embodied in his lay. 

I knew the metal of the Club, 
The circle I might rightly dub 
The rival universal Hub, 
And this of course I also knew 



THREADS OF MOSS. 21 

They'd stand right there till frozen blue, 

And if I yet consented not 

To take the whole consummate lot 

Of manuscripts upon the spot, 

They'd clang and clatter at my door, 

Till death released me or a thaw ! 

So I consented (how like men!) 

And once again resumed my pen, 

Wrote on till six o'clock came 'round, 

(If poets write in slumbers sound,) 

And this, ah well! was what I found. 

Part 2. 



The god of all the gods, great Jove, alone. 

Sat sternly turning, high upon his throne, 

The pages vast of his celestial tome. 

'Twas here he found, as he was wont of yore. 

The wearying subjects he had conned before, — 

The wisdom introduced from gallant Gaul, 

The erudition taken from Pall Mall, 

The wit from Greece and ancient Rome and all 

The speech delivered once in Fanueil Hall; 

All this and more, Jove could no longer brook. 

Such relics of the past, submerged the book. 



22 THREADS OF MOSS. 

11. 

Surfeited with the records he partook, 
The king abruptly shut the fated book, 
And high Olympus at the impact shook ! 
Then leaning o'er the far extending land, 
With all the might that gods alone command, 
He hurled (and now his greatest strength ap- 
plies ;) 
O'er earth and sea the journal of the skies. 
The pond'rous pages loos'ning in their fall. 
Spread wide their ruined records over all 
The region vast from Egypt unto Gaul, 
And sinking in the soil each leaf there sticks. 
The origin of man, the seer predicts. 
Will be traced, through these hieroglyphics. 
In the year forty hundred ninety-six. 



III. 



Great Jove then to the god of wisdom said: 
"The cyclopedias of these realms I've read. 
And find that every bilious theme but fills 
Each god and goddess with dyspeptic ills ; 
The whole celestial race is turning yellow, 
From what they've been compelled to swallow. 



THREADS OF MOSS. 23 

Speed to the earth and search the world abroad, 
Secure the choicest wit the earth affords, 
Ambrosial food to feed these famished gods. 
Somewhere a Literary Club you'll find, 
Of which 'tis said there's nothing like its kind. 
On Attic Salt the members daily feed, 
And honey of Hymettus as they need. 
Pursue my quest of these rare writers learn. 
Impatient Jove awaits thy swift return." 

IV. 

Then to the earth the willing goddess flies. 
And Jove once more ascends the loftiest skies, 
Where 'round the throne the gods attend in 

crowds, 
The king who wields the science of the clouds. 
Many a goddess too is in the train. 
Who join the waiting throng around the fane. 
Bacchus alone is let to move about. 
To exercise and limber up his gout! 

V. 

Meanwhile Minerva spreads each golden wing, 
And as she soars her silver sandals ring; 



24 THREADS OF MOSS. 

Through every city of the eastern sun, 
She flies to which her shining sandals run; 
Through endless towns she drives her ceaseless 

wing, 
So swift the flight her silver slippers sing. 
No Club is found that holds sufficient store. 
To yet attract this airy voyager, 
Till bold and blue the classic Catskills rise. 
"Here lies the town !" the happy goddess cries, 
And on her quest no more herself applies, 
But furls her snowy sails in Saugerties ! 



VI. 

Now what it was 'tis never plainly clear. 

And so receives no explanation here;) 

That made the songster dream that 'ventful 

night, 
(All poets have a visionary flight;) 
And hence write not what he had meant to 

write. 
The sacred sheets the Club had left behind, 
With silken threads Minerva's fingers bind, 
And then she sails (to join the upper crowds) 
The pearly pathway leading through the clouds. 



THEEADS OF MOSS. 



Apollo rising lays aside his bow, 
(The first to break the unremitting row,) 
Receives the beaming goddess with a nod, 
And hands her to a seat by father god. 
Who, eager to peruse the brilliant thoughts, 
That just have reached the precincts of his 

courts. 
Plucks a meteor from the passing sky, 
And holds it near his secretary's eye. 



VII. 

Jove said, "Dear Pallas, while the flaming beam 
I hold, you read the Club, creme de la creme." 
Then Pallas, rising, read both loud and clear, 
That all the heavens crowded 'round might hear 
Each subject of the Club de Saugerties 
That once spellbound the earth but now the 

skies. 
Delighted with the learning which he drew. 
Before were read three-fourths the subjects 

through, 
Jove massed the hundred thousand sheets or 

less, 
And sent them all to the Olympic press. 



26 threads of moss. 

Epilogue. 

Pleased with the feast of reason they partook, 
All wished but not a god his seat forsook, 
'Till each had left an order for a book. 
The classic circuit, at a nod from Jove, 
Disjoins the Senate and abruptly rose, 
Then to their different routes themselves apply, 
Reach in a thought the stars to which they fly, 
Set in the suburbs of the dusky sky. 
And as the bee returns again to sup, 
And fill with sweets his oft depleted cup, 
So shall each god who feels his wisdom wane, 
Return to sip the dulcet themes again. 
Fresh from the press this tome shall entertain, 
And like the cruise of oil feel not the drain. 



BABY MIRIAM 

(the author's daughter.) 

It was winter. — 
A soft white mantle gently lay, 
Lo, Earth had robed herself that day! 
And skies were all with love aglow, 
And earth was one exquisite snow, 

When baby Miriam came. 

It was winter. — 
With smile that only angels know, 
And purer than the spotless snow. 
With founts of blue in sweetest eyes, 
E'er kindled in the upper skies. 

Baby Miriam came. 

It was spring. — 
Lovely Miriam's graces grew; 
The pretty flowers likewise too; 
This lily, like the flowers sprung, 
That yield best joys when life is young, 

Was baby Miriam. 



28 THREADS OF MOSS. 

It was summer. — 
Then by her cherub brow 'twas known, 
Too much of Heaven to earth had flown. 
Lovely Miriam did not die! 
Her soul went back, 'twas her reply 

To Heaven. 



THOMAS JEFFERSON BARTON, M. D. 

(A man of great intellectual power, a critic, poet, and 
a physician of superior ability.) 

A giant in God's vast eternal plan; 
Among his fellow men a gifted man, 
Whose fearless spirit, wise, free and bold could, 
When his just judgment moved him to the mood, 
Arraign the bad and recommend the good. 
To whom all pretendence and vain display, 
The pomp of pelf and pride and such as they. 
That chill the heart and lead the mind astray, 
Were less than naught, — sad shadows of a day ! 

Though to great minds his fancy chiefly turned, 

Yet no degrees of human kind he spurned; 

A scholar in the school of Learning's best, 

A man of wit yet could descend to jest; 

He knew the artificial from the true. 

And reverenced most what Nature spread to 

view. 
A prince among the noble of his art, 
He left to earth, like them, not only part, 
But all the worth and wisdom of his heart. 



AGE AND YOUTH 

Much wisdom doth old age 
With all the years accrue; 

Age is perhaps but youth 
Though in another hue. 

Age is the constant stream 
That broadens to the sea; 

Youth is the babbling brook, 
A possibility. 



PHEBE'S PROBLEM 

Sweet Phebe knows not which to take — 
Jack has her love and so has Jake; 
So nicely balanced runs the tale, 
A feather's weight might turn the scale. 

Long has dear Phebe held in store, 
And much the matter pondered o'er: 
The sweet conundrum, by resolve, 
She's promised Jake and Jack to solve. 

By no light tokens will she bide. 
That help some maidens to decide — 
As clover leaf above the door. 
Or pulhng of the longest straw. 

Oh, no, this much bewitching lass 
Lets such delusive omens pass. 
"I'll seek," quoth she, "some violet bed 
And thence determine which I'll wed." 

And so, with heart and mind content, 
And on both Jack and Jacob bent, 



32 THREADS OF MOSS. 

She finds the Httle buds of blue, 

And, bending down, picks off just two. 

"I'll name this Jack and call this Jake; 
If Jake should lose, then Jack I'll take; 
If Jacob wins, why Jack I lose. 
Oh, what a lovely way to choose!" 

Then hooks, as she has often done, 

The buds together, just for fun; 

But now in earnest, and, anon. 

She'll take the one whose head stays on. 

Then, closing both her pretty eyes. 
Sweet Phebe pulls. To her surprise, 
In scarce one little second's beat. 
Both heads lie severed at her feet! 

Moral : 
The obvious moral herein seen is this: 
A fickle mind is often much remiss ; 
Our aims and actions subdivided lose 
The very object we had sought to choose; 
And, hke this captious maiden, fail to win 
Just naught except what may be termed 
chagrin. 



PRELUDE TO PORTIA 

(Lines read by the author, Feb. 24, 1903, Tivoli, N. Y.) 

Of all the things that gods or men 

Demand of us below, 
Worst is to ask some dreadful task, 

Our dullness can not do. 

When mighty Jove, who owns great realms 

Of glist'ning real estate, 
Lets on his hand a vast amount 

Of dust accumulate. 
And wants that dust and much that's rust 

All strictly cleared away 
He calls John Hercules, P. D., 

The best man of his day. 

And so when Time would send at once,, 

A message on the run, 
He picks no stumbling dunce to break 

The record to the sun; 
Or if a billet doux that's meant 

Alone for Hebe's eye, 



34 THREADS OF MOSS. 

And must be sent with full intent 
To get a sealed reply, 

The wary Cupid sends a god, 
No goddess need apply! 



When we poor men are racked with pain 

That quacks nor mint can't reach, 
Our trouble hies for Doctor Wise, 

Who pHes the cup and leech. 
And if he finds the case won't yield, 

To treatments we don't know, 
He slyly leaves a bottle marked 

Good old Ehxir Pro ! 



But if we'd prove that seven tints 

Produce one spot of white, 
The proof on wing would quickly bring 

The school teachers in sight; 
Or if we wished to jam four squares 

In two circles' spaces, 
Translate aut insanit homo 

Aut facit versus, 
The thing they'd do and look us all 

Calmly in our faces. 



THREADS OF MOSS. 35 



But should this vital Eastern Star 
Ere feel the critic's knife, 

And if the quill, ah me, should kill, 
To bring it back to life, 

We wouldn't call the doctor in, 
We'd call the doctor's wife!* 



When wise Minerva wanted 'roused 

The music of the lute. 
She asked no Pan nor Vu-l-canf 

To drum a sweet salute, 
But wisely chose; — Appolo 'rose 

The master of the flute. 
And when a lady wishes wrote 

Some literary chaffs. 
She asks a bard who never sings 

Such wondrous things by half. 



*The Worthy Matron was the doctor's wife. 
tVulcan. 



PORTIA 



(Written at the request of Mrs. C. A. Pritchard, the 
Worthy Matron of Portia Chapter, No. 235, O. E. S., 
and read by the author, on the occasion of a "Shakes- 
pearian Evening," held in Monumental Lodge rooms, 
Madalin, N. Y., February 24, 1903.) 



I. 

Hail to Portia, the Eastern Star address'd, 
Immortal star by Shakespeare's wit express'd, 
Queen of the Muse and empress of my song, 
To whom each thought and simple line belong! 

II. 

Who is this Portia? And whose was the hand 
That brought this vision forth from Colchos 

strand ? 
By what nice dreams was princely Shakespeare 

swayed 
When first he brought to light this Venice maid? 
Breath of a bard his spirit gave her life 
And made the world with Hving Portia rife! 



THREADS OF MOSS. 37 

III. 

The drama's Juno, whose bewitching self 
Outshines for love the grasping greed for pelf; 
Whose graces the ungracious mind regrets, 
And all those charms outnumb'ring Juliet's. 
Ten thousand suitors for her smiles repine, 
Ten thousand suitors win a Rosahne. 



IV. 

What tale is this rehearsed about this queen.? 
The half is told, the other half not seen, 
And if beheld the first would seem so small, 
That what is said would seem not said at all. 



V. 

This then is what sweet Portia most would 

teach : 
The act is fair, 'tis better than the speech; 
The human breast where lies the conscience 

dead, 
Resembles gold much weighted down with lead; 



38 THREADS OF MOSS. 

One fearless truth that 'scapes the schemer's 

mesh, 
Though Hght as air outweighs one pound of 

flesh; 
That noble organ misconstrued the head, 
Too often follows where the heart has fled; 
Yet not, forsooth, would I condemn the man 
Whose heart is soft, let those but try who can ; 
'Tis far much better that his head aloft 
Should be a little hard than over soft. 



VI. 

The changing scene ennobles Portia's part; 
She is not counseled only by the heart, 
Nor will she from her sire's mandates stray ; 
And this act points a moral in the play : — 
That first we love our selfish selves the most. 
And may be pardoned much when least we boast. 
Then there is gold, like King Midas, we'd gain, 
If only clouds would send it down like rain, 
That all might on the yellow nectar sup, 
Till every heart beat in a golden cup. 
Let's not too much a grasping Shylock scoff, 
There are some folks had cut just double off'! 



THREADS OF MOSS. 39 

VII. 

The ardent youth, who feels his forehead grow, 
'Till half his skull from wisdom is aglow, 
Removes the path that once his mother's pride 
Was wont to trace with love on either side, 
And early learns 'twould be no gentle trait, 
To part it in the middle of his pate, 
And thus to mark the balance of his brain, 
That both the sides might bear an equal strain, 
And so remove beyond the slightest doubt, 
The chance to grow onesided from without 

VIII. 

Nor less, perhaps, (than when our mother's 

heart. 
Straight o'er our brows, drew back the golden 

part, 
And smoothed, with tender touch, the silken 

threads, 
That formed, with what good Nature richly 

spreads, 
The yellow crown upon our boyish heads,) 
We spurn the lines of this our earlier date, 
When others have no 'surance to be straight, 



40 THREADS OF MOSS. 

And build in modern stature and erect, 
Achieving naught; (on which we may reflect.) 
Sweet Portia's lost; but reck we not of that, 
A butterfly is caught with empty hat! 

IX. 

But Portia is a woman just and true; 
And I could paint such noble women too, 
The fairest creatures to this kingdom lent. 
Were this the time and such my theme's intent; 
Or, did I care to lengthen out this scroll. 
Another picture might I now unroll, 
To prove the adage good, though worn and old, 
That much, alas, that glitters is not gold. 
But here my cautious pen shall not be lent 
To sketch what soon the poet might repent. 
My mind still to my youthful ideal clings, 
I ne'er could paint a woman without wings. 

X. 

There are so many moods that might be writ, 
If herein only more would wisely fit; 
And yet the writer quotes but Portia's will, 
And what is wrote is written with her quill. 



THREADS OF MOSS. 41 

Sweet Portia's self, and here lies least acclaim, 
'Twas not herself alone they sought to gain; — 
When knightly lords and princely courtiers 

came, 
Each to the gold or silver casket sped, 
And shunned the one that they mistook for lead. 
Thus are we by much glitter (more's the shame) 
Induced to play the self-same-act again. 
Spurn not the duller clay for there alone 
Perchance may he an angel 'neath the stone! 



XI. 

There is so much distracts the heart and mind, 
We're in the play ere half we are inclined; 
Once on the stage we're helpless to withdraw ; 
We act all parts and sigh there are no more. 



VILLAGE GIRL AND TRINITY 
CHURCH BELL 

(Lines suggested by the indefinite closing of the church 
to which the author belonged.) 

Village Girl: 

Tell, oh tell me, dear old bell, 
O thou belfried sentinel, 
Why thy tones no longer swell. 
If thou hear'st me, dearest bell, 
Tell, oh tell me what befell. 
Why thy tones no longer swell, 
Dear old belfried sentinel. 



Trinity Bell: 

Yes, oh yes, I hear thee plead. 

Little, dear, would be the need 

If again my voice were freed; 

Over mountains, stream and mead 

Let, oh let the tidings speed 

That it never was decreed 

That my voice should ne'er be freed. 



theeads of moss. 43 

Village Girl: 

Tell, oh tell me, dear old friend, 
O thou pride of Christian men, 
What thy silence doth portend . 
Wilt thou ring and ring again, 
O thou tried and faithful friend? 
Surely this is not the end 
That thy silence doth portend! 

Trinity Bell: 

Rest, dear girl, thy. anxious soul, 
Reigns Jehovah as of old; 
Out upon the wood and wold, 
God shall let my music roll ; 
Roll, sweet music, clear and bold! 
Fret not then, dear anxious soul, 
Reigns Jehovah as of old. 



BABY BOY'S VOYAGE 

Baby boy, ship ahoy, 
All the sails a-flying. 
Skies are blue, gallant crew, 
Soon he's on the voyage. 

Steady keel, ship of steel. 
All the sun a-shining. 
Light the swell, fare thee well. 
Now he's on the voyage. 

Fair the breeze, 'cross the seas. 
Safe the ship's a-sailing. 
Balmy air everywhere 
On the bonny voyage. 

Brave the ship makes the trip, — ■ 
Now she is returning. 
Staunch and true 'cross the blue, 
Homeward on the voyage. 



THREADS OF MOSS. 45 

Ship ahoy, baby boy, 

All the bells a-ringing, 

Safe in port, love's the thought 

Makes the golden voyage. 



A GLIMPSE OF THE ADVENT OF 
MICHAEL ANGELO 

Long, long since the days of Chaucer had 

poetry been mute, 
And Learning old no longer bore the choicest 

of her fruit; 
The brilliant sun must set or ere the day again 

is born, 
The dying trunk enrich the soil from which 

new treelets form. 



Just as from out the hanging clouds the won- 
drous rainbow grew. 

Thus the modern learning broke o'er the mod- 
ern earth anew ; 

The greatest of his time had come (the greatest 
that we know) 

When latter Rome gave to the world great 
Michael Angelo. 



THREADS OP MOSS. 47 

It was in the marble statue the Grecian's creed 

was said, 
It was in an antique statue the "Marble Faun" 

was read, 
But 'twas in the uncouth marble in dust and 

grimness prone. 
The master sculptor always saw an angel in the 

stone. 



THE GIFT OF SILENCE 

Of all the gifts the gods had at command, 
The rarest one, bestowed on erring man, 
Was Silence; and unless unduly much, 
The gods made no mistake in granting such. 



Wisest of gifts, for how much good is wrought 
When speech is mute and silence sways the 

thought ! 
Discreet is he and very circumspect 
Who holds, at least, each hasty thought in 

check. 



THE MAN WHO KNOWS 

The man who knows, when at his ratthng rate, 
Does often keep the credulous crowd a-gape; 
His wealth is words and when this all is used, 
He'll borrow more to keep the crowd amused. 

The man who knows knew all things from the 

start, 
And labors loud his knowledge to impart; 
But if the opposite turns out instead. 
He's shouting volumes of "'Twas what I said!" 

This man is sure of how it all befell; 
If wrong, he adds that you may go — ah, well, 
He's not so over choice about each word, 
The chiefest thing to him is to be heard. 

L'Envoi. 

Thus ever is it with the man 

Whose over-loaded skull 
Beguiles him into thinking 

That he more than knows the "hull." 



50 THREADS OP MOSS. 

Whose bump of gumption is his tongue, 

So constant on the jump, 
And flows a stream when e'er you place 

Your hands upon the pump. 



AN UNAVOIDABLE PROCRASTINATION 



The Tardy Bridegroom, Tivoli 

With congratulations to the Rev. Father Dooly, the 
author of "Let's Marry Them," upon his clever plan 
and happy poetical solution of the question, "Is it 
Madalin or Tivoli?" 

The plan is good. Salute the bard who knows 
So well the way to reconcile our woes ! 
Right to the point his shafts impelled for good. 
True as the feathered darts of Robin Hood. 
He trims his arrows bright, and when they're 

pruned, 
His shafts are sped to warn but not to wound. 
Love shapes his wands and Duty bends the bow, 
And if his missiles hit he shares the blow. 



But first a dire apology is due, 

Before the groom's dilemma I pursue: 

(Will Wordsworth, when he'd studied out his 

plan, 
Took nineteen years to polish up his man, 



52 THREADS OF MOSS. 

Poor Peter Bell. To tell of his disaster, 
For nineteen years mixed donkey and the mas- 
ter! 

Then why not this dull pen, whose blunted edge 
Is better meant to form a woodman's wedge, 
Than decorate a man in one short week. 
To grace a nuptial he did not seek?) 

One week ago, poor man, now doomed to wed, 
Had been on hand, but he was sick in bed. 
The truth is this (murder will always out,) 
The helpless man was laid up with the gout. 
And owned, when quizzed, he'd been a little 

risky. 
And added too much water to his whisky. 

Now that was vile! To think that I did use 
That dreadful word to help along this muse! 
It was bad taste. I should have stopped to 

think. 
And used a term that would have rhymed with 

drink. 

But be that as it may, the doctors came. 
And in a jifFy diagnosed the pain: 



THREADS OF MOSS. 53 

"He's sound of mind and surely sound of lung, 
The root of this disease must be his tongue." 
Now that was wise; for let us all remember, 
The seat of most complaints lies in this member. 

From foot to head they plied each pungent art, 
But somehow could not find the patient's heart. 
"There's something else besides his being lame, 
That ails this man. Now let us try again." 
They used the probe and pounded in each test, 
Yet could not find his heart within his chest. 
While all the while the man declaimed of 

hades, — 
(We'll spare the words and not affront the 

ladies.) 

Aghast the doctors stood: "What shall we do? 
He'll have to have a heart to pull him through." 
Then Cupid sped — he is a wily lad. 
And soon returned to make the doctors glad. 

"Good Sirs," he said, "I think I've found the 

Miss. 
His gout be hanged! The case is simply this: 
Fair Madalin, who is the same sweet belle, 
A lass, that sometimes fares us ill or well, 



54 THREADS OF MOSS. 

The same dear girl that she most always is, 
Has sent her heart to take the place of his.^^ 

"That's just the thing!" the doctors cried, 

"and you 
May give it out that we have pulled him 

through." 
A sounder man, perhaps a little tart, 
But just the sort to hold a damsel's heart. 

Sweet Madalin — but no, I'll not attempt 
To dress the lady up for this event; 
It takes a poet's pen, a poet's soul, 
To play so fine a part in such a role. 
The man has been presented in the plot; 
A better hand than mine must tie the knot. 



THERE IS NO MIDDLE GROUND 

There is no middle ground. So shape them as 

we will, 
Our lives, at best or worst, stand but for good 

or ill. 

There is no middle ground. This is the 

righteous plan : — 
Our just accountability to God and man. 

Think not that we may find some sweet, re- 
morseless spot, 

Where Right lies prone and dead, and Justice 
liveth not. 

Where graceless thoughts exclude all graceful 

deeds of love. 
And get for such as those indulgence from 

above. 

Think not that we may find some earthly 

bourn un shriven. 
Whereon descendeth not the dread decrees of 

Heaven. 



56 THREADS OF MOSS. 

Mayhap there is a road that through the dis- 
tance leads, 

Where faiths to shadows grow and men alas, 
to weeds. — 

But no, there is no middle ground; and this 

the test — 
We have, for having lived, the world but 

wronged or blest! 

Beguiled with false ideals, deluded to the last, 
We gaze in 5^Z/-appraisement o'er our vacant 
past. 

Let's not our years so end with such excuses 

made — 
"Here is, O Judge, thy talent in this napkin 

laid." 

Learn of each thread of grass that upward as 

it springs. 
Of life and not of death each tiny tendril 

sings. 



MUSIC 

Oh sweet, immortal music 

That never shall expire, 
We hear thee in the laughing brook, 

The grasses and the lyre, 
And where a million chords are strung 

Among the joyful trees, 
We hear the notes the breezes make 

Among the singing leaves. 



21 1908 



